After Dark

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER V.

  The events foretold by the good priest happened sooner even than he hadanticipated. A new government ruled the destinies of France, and thepersecution ceased in Brittany.

  Among other propositions which were then submitted to the Parliament,was one advocating the restoration of the road-side crosses throughoutthe province. It was found, however, on inquiry, that these crosses wereto be counted by thousands, and that the mere cost of wood required tore-erect them necessitated an expenditure of money which the bankruptnation could ill afford to spare. While this project was underdiscussion, and before it was finally rejected, one man had undertakenthe task which the Government shrank from attempting. When Gabriel leftthe cottage, taking his brother and sisters to live with his wife andhimself at the farmhouse, Francois Sarzeau left it also, to perform inhighway and byway his promise to Father Paul. For months and months helabored without intermission at his task; still, always doing good, andrendering help and kindness and true charity to any whom he could serve.He walked many a weary mile, toiled through many a hard day's work,humbled himself even to beg of others, to get wood enough to restore asingle cross. No one ever heard him complain, ever saw him impatient,ever detected him in faltering at his task. The shelter in an outhouse,the crust of bread and drink of water, which he could always get fromthe peasantry, seemed to suffice him. Among the people who watchedhis perseverance, a belief began to gain ground that his life would bemiraculously prolonged until he had completed his undertaking from oneend of Brittany to the other. But this was not to be.

  He was seen one cold autumn evening, silently and steadily at workas usual, setting up a new cross on the site of one which had beenshattered to splinters in the troubled times. In the morning he wasfound lying dead beneath the sacred symbol which his own hands hadcompleted and erected in its place during the night. They buried himwhere he lay; and the priest who consecrated the ground allowed Gabrielto engrave his father's epitaph in the wood of the cross. It wassimply the initial letters of the dead man's name, followed by thisinscription: "Pray for the repose of his soul: he died penitent, and thedoer of good works."

  Once, and once only, did Gabriel hear anything of Father Paul. The goodpriest showed, by writing to the farmhouse, that he had not forgottenthe family so largely indebted to him for their happiness. The letterwas dated "Rome." Father Paul said that such services as he had beenpermitted to render to the Church in Brittany had obtained for him anew and a far more glorious trust than any he had yet held. He had beenrecalled from his curacy, and appointed to be at the head of a missionwhich was shortly to be dispatched to convert the inhabitants of asavage and far distant land to the Christian faith. He now wrote, as hisbrethren with him were writing, to take leave of all friends foreverin this world, before setting out--for it was well known to the chosenpersons intrusted with the new mission that they could only hope toadvance its object by cheerfully risking their own lives for the sakeof their religion. He gave his blessing to Francois Sarzeau, to Gabriel,and to his family; and bade them affectionately farewell for the lasttime.

  There was a postscript to the letter, which was addressed to Perrine,and which she often read afterward with tearful eyes. The writer beggedthat, if she should have any children, she would show her friendly andChristian remembrance of him by teaching them to pray (as he hoped sheherself would pray) that a blessing might attend Father Paul's labors inthe distant land.

  The priest's loving petition was never forgotten. When Perrine taughtits first prayer to her first child, the little creature was instructedto end the few simple words pronounced at its mother's knees, with, "Godbless Father Paul."

  In those words the nun concluded her narrative. After it was ended, shepointed to the old wooden cross, and said to me:

  "That was one of the many that he made. It was found, a few years since,to have suffered so much from exposure to the weather that it was unfitto remain any longer in its old place. A priest in Brittany gave itto one of the nuns in this convent. Do you wonder now that the MotherSuperior always calls it a Relic?"

  "No," I answered. "And I should have small respect indeed for thereligious convictions of any one who could hear the story of that woodencross, and not feel that the Mother Superior's name for it is the verybest that could have been chosen."

  PROLOGUE TO THE SIXTH STORY.

  On the last occasion when I made a lengthened stay in London, my wifeand I were surprised and amused one morning by the receipt of thefollowing note, addressed to me in a small, crabbed, foreign-lookinghandwriting.

  "Professor Tizzi presents amiable compliments to Mr. Kerby, the artist,and is desirous of having his portrait done, to be engraved from, andplaced at the beginning of the voluminous work on 'The Vital Principle;or, Invisible Essence of Life,' which the Professor is now preparing forthe press--and posterity.

  "The Professor will give five pounds; and will look upon his face withsatisfaction, as an object perpetuated for public contemplation at areasonable rate, if Mr. Kerby will accept the sum just mentioned.

  "In regard to the Professor's ability to pay five pounds, as well asto offer them, if Mr. Kerby should, from ignorance, entertain injuriousdoubts, he is requested to apply to the Professor's honorable friend,Mr. Lanfray, of Rockleigh Place."

  But for the reference at the end of this strange note, I shouldcertainly have considered it as a mere trap set to make a fool of me bysome mischievous friend. As it was, I rather doubted the proprietyof taking any serious notice of Professor Tizzi's offer; and I mightprobably have ended by putting the letter in the fire without furtherthought about it, but for the arrival by the next post of a note fromMr. Lanfray, which solved all my doubts, and sent me away at once tomake the acquaintance of the learned discoverer of the Essence of Life.

  "Do not be surprised" (Mr. Lanfray wrote) "if you get a strange notefrom a very eccentric Italian, one Professor Tizzi, formerly of theUniversity of Padua. I have known him for some years. Scientific inquiryis his monomania, and vanity his ruling passion. He has written a bookon the principle of life, which nobody but himself will ever read;but which he is determined to publish, with his own portrait forfrontispiece. If it is worth your while to accept the little he canoffer you, take it by all means, for he is a character worth knowing.He was exiled, I should tell you, years ago, for some absurd politicalreason, and has lived in England ever since. All the money he inheritsfrom his father, who was a mail contractor in the north of Italy, goesin books and experiments; but I think I can answer for his solvency,at any rate, for the large sum of five pounds. If you are not very muchoccupied just now, go and see him. He is sure to amuse you."

  Professor Tizzi lived in the northern suburb of London. On approachinghis house, I found it, so far as outward appearance went, excessivelydirty and neglected, but in no other respect different from the "villas"in its neighborhood. The front garden door, after I had rang twice, wasopened by a yellow-faced, suspicious old foreigner, dressed in worn-outclothes, and completely and consistently dirty all over, from top totoe. On mentioning my name and business, this old man led me across aweedy, neglected garden, and admitted me into the house. At the firststep into the passage, I was surrounded by books. Closely packed inplain wooden shelves, they ran all along the wall on either side to theback of the house; and when I looked up at the carpetless staircase, Isaw nothing but books again, running all the way up the wall, as far asmy eye could reach. "Here is the Artist Painter!" cried the old servant,throwing open one of the parlor doors, before I had half done looking atthe books, and signing impatiently to me to walk into the room.

  Books again! all round the walls, and all over the floor--among them aplain deal table, with leaves of manuscript piled high on every part ofit--among the leaves a head of long, elfish white hair covered with ablack skull-cap, and bent down over a book--above the head a sallow,withered hand shaking itself at me as a sign that I must not venture tospeak just at that moment--on the tops of the bookcases glass vasesfull of spirits of some kind, with
horrible objects floating in theliquid--dirt on the window panes, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, dustspringing up in clouds under my intruding feet. These were the things Iobserved on first entering the study of Professor Tizzi.

  After I had waited for a minute or so, the shaking hand stopped,descended with a smack on the nearest pile of manuscript, seized thebook that the head had been bending over, and flung it contemptuouslyto the other end of the room. "I've refuted _you,_ at any rate!" saidProfessor Tizzi, looking with extreme complacency at the cloud of dustraised by the fall of the rejected volume.

  He turned next to me. What a grand face it was! What a broad, whiteforehead---what fiercely brilliant black eyes--what perfect regularityand refinement in the other features; with the long, venerable hair,framing them in, as it were, on either side! Poor as I was, I feltthat I could have painted his portrait for nothing. Titian, Vandyke,Valasquez--any of the three would have paid him to sit to them!

  "Accept my humblest excuses, sir," said the old man, speaking Englishwith a singularly pure accent for a foreigner. "That absurd book plungedme so deep down in the quagmires of sophistry and error, Mr. Kerby, thatI really could not get to the surface at once when you came into theroom. So you are willing to draw my likeness for such a small sum asfive pounds?" he continued, rising, and showing me that he wore a longblack velvet gown, instead of the paltry and senseless costume of moderntimes.

  I informed him that five pounds was as much as I generally got for adrawing.

  "It seems little," said the professor; "but if you want fame, I can makeit up to you in that way. There is my great work" (he pointed to thepiles of manuscript), "the portrait of my mind and the mirror of mylearning; put a likeness of my face on the first page, and posteritywill then be thoroughly acquainted with me, outside and in. Yourportrait will be engraved, Mr. Kerby, and your name shall be inscribedunder the print. You shall be associated, sir, in that way, with a workwhich will form an epoch in the history of human science. The VitalPrinciple--or, in other words, the essence of that mysterious Somethingwhich we call Life, and which extends down from Man to the feeblestinsect and the smallest plant--has been an unguessed riddle from thebeginning of the world to the present time. I alone have found theanswer; and here it is!" He fixed his dazzling eyes on me in triumph,and smacked the piles of manuscript fiercely with both his sallow hands.

  I saw that he was waiting for me to say something; so I asked if hisgreat work had not cost a vast expenditure of time and pains.

  "I am seventy, sir," said the Professor; "and I began preparing myselffor that book at twenty. After mature consideration, I have written itin English (having three other foreign languages at my fingers' ends),as a substantial proof of my gratitude to the nation that has givenme an asylum. Perhaps you think the work looks rather long in itsmanuscript state? It will occupy twelve volumes, sir, and it is not halflong enough, even then, for the subject. I take two volumes (and no mancould do it in less) to examine the theories of all the philosophers inthe world, ancient and modern, on the Vital Principle. I take two more(and little enough) to scatter every one of the theories, _seriatim_,to the winds. I take two more (at the risk, for brevity's sake, of doingthings by halves) to explain the exact stuff, or vital compound, ofwhich the first man and woman in the world were made--calling them Adamand Eve, out of deference to popular prejudices. I take two more--butyou are standing all this time, Mr. Kerby; and I am talking instead ofsitting for my portrait. Pray take any books you want, anywhere off thefloor, and make a seat of any height you please. Furniture would only bein my way here, so I don't trouble myself with anything of the kind."

  I obediently followed the Professor's directions, and had just heapedup a pile of grimy quartos, when the old servant entered the room with ashabby little tray in his hand. In the middle of the tray I saw a crustof bread and a bit of garlic, encircled by a glass of water, a knife,salt, pepper, a bottle of vinegar, and a flask of oil.

  "With your permission, I am going to breakfast," said Professor Tizzi,as the tray was set down before him on the part of his great workrelating to the vital compound of Adam and Eve. As he spoke, he tookup the piece of bread, and rubbed the crusty part of it with the bit ofgarlic, till it looked as polished as a new dining-table. That done, heturned the bread, crumb uppermost, and saturated it with oil, added afew drops of vinegar, sprinkled with pepper and salt, and, with a gleamof something very like greediness in his bright eyes, took up the knifeto cut himself a first mouthful of the horrible mess that he had justconcocted. "The best of breakfasts," said the Professor, seeing me lookamazed. "Not a cannibal meal of chicken-life in embryo (vulgarly calledan egg); not a dog's gorge of a dead animal's flesh, blood and bones,warmed with fire (popularly known as a chop); not a breakfast, sir, thatlions, tigers, Caribbees, and costermongers could all partake of alike;but an innocent, nutritive, simple, vegetable meal; a philosopher'srefection, a breakfast that a prize-fighter would turn from in disgust,and that a Plato would share with relish."

  I have no doubt that he was right, and that I was prejudiced; but as Isaw the first oily, vinegary, garlicky morsel slide noiselessly into hismouth, I began to feel rather sick. My hands were dirty with moving thebooks, and I asked if I could wash them before beginning to work at thelikeness, as a good excuse for getting out of the room, while ProfessorTizzi was unctuously disposing of his simple vegetable meal.

  The philosopher looked a little astonished at my request, as if thewashing of hands at irregular times and seasons offered a comparativelynew subject of contemplation to him; but he rang a hand-bell on histable immediately, and told the old servant to take me up into hisbedroom.

  The interior of the parlor had astonished me; but a sight of the bedroomwas a new sensation--not of the most agreeable kind. The couch on whichthe philosopher sought repose after his labors was a truckle-bed thatwould not have fetched half a crown at a sale. On one side of it dangledfrom the ceiling a complete male skeleton, looking like all that wasleft of a man who might have hung himself about a century ago, and whohad never been disturbed since the moment of his suicide. On the otherside of the bed stood a long press, in which I observed hideous coloredpreparations of the muscular system, and bottles with curious, twining,thread-like substances inside them, which might have been remarkableworms or dissections of nerves, scattered amicably side by side withthe Professor's hair-brush (three parts worn out), with remnants ofhis beard on bits of shaving-paper, with a broken shoe-horn, and witha traveling looking-glass of the sort usually sold at sixpence apiece.Repetitions of the litter of books in the parlor lay all about over thefloor; colored anatomical prints were nailed anyhow against the walls;rolled-up towels were scattered here, there, and everywhere in thewildest confusion, as if the room had been bombarded with them; andlast, but by no means least remarkable among the other extraordinaryobjects in the bed-chamber, the stuffed figure of a large unshavenpoodle-dog, stood on an old card-table, keeping perpetual watch over apair of the philosopher's black breeches twisted round his forepaws.

  I had started, on entering the room, at the skeleton, and I started oncemore at the dog. The old servant noticed me each time with a sardonicgrin. "Don't be afraid," he said; "one is as dead as the other." Withthese words, he left me to wash my hands.

  Finding little more than a pint of water at my disposal, and failingaltogether to discover where the soap was kept, I was not long inperforming my ablutions. Before leaving the room, I looked again at thestuffed poodle. On the board to which he was fixed, I saw painted infaded letters the word "Scarammuccia," evidently the comic Italianname to which he had answered in his lifetime. There was no otherinscription; but I made up my mind that the dog must have been theProfessor's pet, and that he kept the animal stuffed in his bedroom asa remembrance of past times. "Who would have suspected so great aphilosopher of having so much heart!" thought I, leaving the bedroom togo downstairs again.

  The Professor had done his breakfast, and was anxious to begin thesitting; so I took out my chalks and paper,
and set to work at once--Iseated on one pile of books and he on another.

  "Fine anatomical preparations in my room, are there not, Mr. Kerby?"said the old gentleman. "Did you notice a very interesting and perfectarrangement of the intestinal ganglia? They form the subject of animportant chapter in my great work."

  "I am afraid you will think me very ignorant," I replied. "But I reallydo not know the intestinal ganglia when I see them. The object I noticedwith most curiosity in your room was something more on a level with myown small capacity."

  "And what was that?" asked the Professor.

  "The figure of the stuffed poodle. I suppose he was a favorite ofyours?"

  "Of mine? No, no; a young woman's favorite, sir, before I was born;and a very remarkable dog, too. The vital principle in that poodle, Mr.Kerby, must have been singularly intensified. He lived to a fabulous oldage, and he was clever enough to play an important part of his ownin what you English call a Romance of Real Life! If I could only havedissected that poodle, I would have put him into my book; he should haveheaded my chapter on the Vital Principle of Beasts."

  "Here is a story in prospect," thought I, "if I can only keep hisattention up to the subject."

  "He should have figured in my great work, sir," the Professor went on."Scarammuccia should have taken his place among the examples that provemy new theory; but unfortunately he died before I was born. His mistressgave him, stuffed, as you see upstairs, to my father to take care offor her, and he has descended as an heirloom to me. Talking of dogs,Mr. Kerby, I have ascertained, beyond the possibility of doubt, that thebrachial plexus in people who die of hydrophobia--but stop! I had bettershow you how it is--the preparation is upstairs under my wash-handstand."

  He left his seat as he spoke. In another minute he would have sent theservant to fetch the "preparation," and I should have lost the story.At the risk of his taking offense, I begged him not to move just then,unless he wished me to spoil his likeness. This alarmed, but fortunatelydid not irritate him. He returned to his seat, and I resumed the subjectof the stuffed poodle, asking him boldly to tell me the story with whichthe dog was connected. The demand seemed to impress him with no veryfavorable opinion of my intellectual tastes; but he complied with it,and related, not without many a wearisome digression to the subject ofhis great work, the narrative which I propose calling by the name of"The Yellow Mask." After the slight specimens that I have given of hischaracter and style of conversation, it will be almost unnecessaryfor me to premise that I tell this story as I have told the last, and"Sister Rose," in my own language, and according to my own plan in thedisposition of the incidents--adding nothing, of course, to the facts,but keeping them within the limits which my disposable space prescribesto me.

  I may perhaps be allowed to add in this place, that I have not yet seenor heard of my portrait in an engraved state. Professor Tizzi isstill alive; but I look in vain through the publishers' lists for anannouncement of his learned work on the Vital Principle. Possibly hemay be adding a volume or two to the twelve already completed, by wayof increasing the debt which a deeply obliged posterity is, sooner orlater, sure of owing to him.

  THE PROFESSOR'S STORY OF THE YELLOW MASK.

  PART FIRST.